First Post|Previous Post|Next Post
* * *
Dry dock, and Roth creaking and groaning as the pressure around her hull rose. Dockyard mates swarmed through her corridors and engineering spaces, sharply out of place in their faded, grease-stained boiler suits, while the Roths themselves (for so her crew were called) mustered on the berth deck.
“Mister Greenstreet,” said the captain, “you may allow the hands three days leave, to return on board by noon this Sunday. Half of their wages due has been placed on their pay cards, with the balance held until they return. Anything they want for the next three days they will need to take with them, as there will be no access to the barky while she is in the dockyard’s hands. Housing will be available at the dockyard barracks, or they may see to their own arrangements. You need not add,” he raised his voice for all to hear, “that deserters forfeit their pay-in-balance and will be hunted down like the dogs they are, for the hands will already know that.”
“Three days leave, half of pay due, take all items wanted, barracks or own arrangements,” said the first officer before turning to address the crew and repeating Jack’s orders almost verbatim.
“Very good, Mister Greenstreet. You may dismiss the men,” said the captain, after a curious, expectant silence. The first officer dismissed the crew, and an excited babble broke out. Neva-IV was no Silver Sphere, nor even a New Las Vegas, but leave was leave, and money was money. “Mister Greenstreet, the same orders for the officers, if you please. We must all of us be off the Roth by the end of the first dog, so there is not a moment to lose.”
First Post|Previous Post|Next Post
No comments:
Post a Comment